


No matter what it takes

by Little_Missile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bring me back to life, Desperate Measures, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Missile/pseuds/Little_Missile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he just gets lucky and Sherlock awakes one day to find out that he is feeling the same for his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue John

**Author's Note:**

> When I have fears that I may cease to be  
> Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,  
> Before high grav'd books, in charact'ry,  
> Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;  
> When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,  
> Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,  
> And think that I may never live to trace  
> Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;  
> And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,  
> That I shall never look upon thee more,  
> Never have relish in the faery power  
> Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore  
> Of the wide world I stand alone, and think  
> Till Love and Fame to Nothingness do sink.
> 
> John Keats

The first thing he feels is the weight of the bomb on his chest. Slowly he raises his arm to put his hand on this device. He opens his eyes and he can see the lights blinking. This time the bomb is equipped with a timer. He can clearly see his time is running out. He's got only five minutes to live.

Slowly he raises his head to look around. Where has Moriarty taken him this time? Under his raising panic he feels also a little embarrassment. He got him, again. Stupid! Stupid John Watson! Not on the watch, as he should have been.

The fog in his mind is clearing. He was going for a walk. He had needed some air, because his flatmate was playing the violin at half past three in the morning. Even though he was not allowed to sleep then, but Sherlock couldn't bind him in the flat. So he took his jacket and stormed out of 221b Baker Street. Not observant as he should have been after the swimming pool fiasco, he took his way on the London Streets. And there at some point Moriarty got him, again.

John sighs. To late to blame himself. He looks around. He is lying in a storage building. Several wooden crates around him. At first, he thinks he's alone. But the light is dim. As he gets on his feet he can see a body lying in a distance of five meter. The body is not moving.

He shakes his head to get rid of the headache the chloroform has given him. Slowly he moves toward the figure on the ground. After two steps he recognises Sherlock. Shit, Moriarty got him, too. Oh what a night, John thinks and then he rushes towards his friend. Kneeling beside him, he can see that Sherlock is also drugged and unconscious.

Looking down on the timer he sees that there are only four minutes left to get the bomb from his body. But he knows he can't do this alone. This thing is complicated and he's afraid that it will explode if he touches the wrong part.

Softly he shakes Sherlock. Giving more and more effort to make him awake he shouts out his name aloud. The man under his hands is moving. His eyes fly open and his mind is covering the whole situation at once.

"John, got yourself a bomb again."

"Oh will you shut up and take this thing away, please?"

Three minutes left, says the timer. The two men are working nervously. Sherlock examines the bomb carefully, and then pulls out a pocket-knife. The bomb is strapped around John's body with a simple belt. With the knife Sherlock cuts the bomb from John's body. He puts the thing on the ground and steps aside.

Both men draw a deep breath. Smiling at each other. Then they look around for a way to escape. The timer is still ticking down. They separate to search the storage hall for an exit. But all doors they find are closed. Sherlock looks up. Up on the wall just beneath the roof are small windows.

He shouts "John, we have to build our way out!" pointing at the crates. The timer shows that there at two minutes left.

John hurries up to carry some crates under the window. Sherlock does the same. But they are too slow, and they know it. The crates are very heavy. What's stuck inside? muses John. In movement to lift a crate up Sherlock stops. Takes a look on the timer. One minute to go.

"John, we are stuck. We won't get up there in time. We have to shield from the upcoming explosion."

John stops dead. Searches the look of his friend. A few seconds their looks are locked. John nods and let go of the crate. He knows what is coming. He takes a deep breath. Knowing what he has to do he takes Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry for this." He mumbles. With a last look on the timer (30 seconds to go) he pushes his friend behind the crates. There's only place for one. No time for arguing. Sherlock has to survive. John knows that he has to shield Sherlock with his body, so that he will survive. But Sherlock's opinion is different.

The last ten seconds the timer is counting out loud.

Ten.

Sherlock pushes John out of the way.

Nine.

Like a dance-move he swings John around and holds him tightly in place.

Eight.

John is hysterical. He can't move. Sherlock can't do this. He will not give his life.

Seven.

One single tear is falling on John's cheek but it is not his.

Six.

He looks up. Sherlock's face shows urgency need to say something. His eyes are filled to the brim with tears.

Five.

John's hand touches the face of his friend.

Four.

"I will not let you die!" John tries to sneak his way out of the strong hands.

Three.

"I will not die. Just stay put!" Sherlock pushes his hand away and let's go of John.

Two.

Sherlock rushes across the room. John is frozen.

One.

He wants to close his eyes. But he also wants to see. Sherlock has arrived on the other side of the room and jumps.

Zero.

John's thoughts stop. All he can see is white.

All is quiet.


	2. Chapter 1

After the explosion Sherlock was deaf and blind at first. But both his vision and hearing came back very fast. He was stuck between some blocks of stone of the wall and the blown bits of the wooden crates. Luckily he could move his hand to his pocket with his cell phone. He called the police and an ambulance. He caught Lestrade in his office and explained shortly the whole situation.

"Lestrade honestly I'm pretty sure that Moriarty is behind this. I will tell you everything I know if you get me and John out of this storage hall." "Wait, John was there too? Oh my dear Lord, what had this son of a bitch planned?"

"Obviously he planned to kill both of us with one bomb, Lestrade!" Sherlock prompted impatiently. "And now get me out of here!" He took his phone down.

It felt like days until the rescue finally arrived. After a quick examination it was sure that Sherlock got only some scratches from the explosion. Sitting in the ambulance with tea in his hands and a blanket over his shoulders he waited for news. They were still searching for John.

He had to wait for two hours. When John was found he was unconscious. No blood on him and no wounds to see. So from the looks of it, John was not seriously injured. Sherlock demanded to drive in the ambulance with John to the hospital, but of course they did not let him.

"Lestrade, I have to go now. Just call me a cab please. The battery of my phone died." Lestrade nodded. Five minutes later Sherlock was on his way.

Soon after the ambulance he arrived at the hospital. He stormed in to make his way directly to the information desk. "I want to visit John Watson. He was delivered a few minutes ago."

The nurse checked her computer and told him that he could not go and see John. "Are you family? Dr. Watson was directly transferred to the ICU." Sherlock saw in an instant that debating with this dragon of a nurse was futile but he insisted to go on. "No, I am not family, but I am his friend and flatmate. I have to see him!"

"So you want to talk the rent, or what?" The nurse simply shook her head to show him the debate was over. "If you wish, I talk to the doctor and he will give you a short info of the diagnosis." Sherlock nodded. "Then please sit down over there. I think it will take some time." She pointed to some benches on the wall opposite the doors to the ICU.

Sherlock sat down and called Lestrade. The battery of his phone had regained some power. Now, if he had to wait then he could inform the DI about what had happened earlier. He had not to wait long for the arrival of Lestrade, because he too was on his way to the hospital.

"So any news about John?" he asked as he entered the waiting room.

"No nothing. The nurse won't tell me and I haven't seen the doctor yet." Sherlock replied.

"So will you fill me in about what has happened in that storage hall?" Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock and looked curiously.

"I don't know how they got John, but I will make a wild guess and say that they got him as he took a walk this morning."

"And how did they get you?" Lestrade turned his head towards Sherlock.

"Oh, that was, I have to confess, just as easy. John left the flat at half past three. I think he didn't liked me playing the violin." Lestrade gave a short snort.

"Yes yes, I know what you want to say. After he was gone I got bored. So I decided to work a little on my website."

Now Lestrade laughed out loud. "Lost your audience?"

"Ha ha, very funny. No, that is not the point." Sherlock sighed. "On my website was a new entry. It was from Moriarty. He had posted a little puzzle. Just telling me, that he took something from me. I solved it quickly. He told me he got John."

"Oh no, not again" groaned Lestrade. He shook his head. "And you went straight after him, didn't you?"

"Yes of course. Within the puzzle he had planted an address. It was the one from that storage hall. As I arrived three men jumped on me immediately. They drugged me. The next thing I saw was John's face." Sherlock fell silent. He inhaled deeply as he remembered the five following minutes.

"So Moriarty got you on your soft spot. He knew that you would do everything to save John. Without even thinking properly and inform us." Lestrade got up from the bench. "Oh Sherlock, he will get you every time now, will he?"

Sherlock looked up and nodded.


	3. Chapter 2

As Sherlock entered the room, John was lying in the hospital-bed. His eyes were closed. Several cables were attached to the skin. Some of them lead to a heart-monitor which showed John's heart rate, blood pressure and pulse. The pulse-frequency was slow. The alarm of the monitor yelled every two minutes because John´s blood pressure was too low.

Sherlock moved forward, closer to the bed. "John, can you hear me? It's Sherlock! John, wake up, please!" he whispered with a low voice. The figure in bed was not moving. Sherlock had hoped his voice would make John respond. The doctor had told him, that they were running several tests to locate the problem. It was now the second day after the blast. Yesterday Sherlock was not allowed to visit because John was treated on the ICU and he was not family. He had tried to get access, but neither charming nor threatening had helped. The dragon outside would not let him in. So Sherlock spent the night on the bench and waited for news. Lestrade had gone back to the Yard for the paperwork, but he had promised to return the next day.

This morning John had been moved to a normal hospital room so Sherlock had been allowed to see him. The doctor in charge was an old uni-friend so he had given him some details of John's status. But because the tests were still running there had been not much to tell. John could breathe alone but his body seems as if it was shutting down all the processes not needed. And the coma seemed to be deep. So far they had not reached him or got any sign of respond.

"Honestly Sherlock, if he will not wake up in the following 48 hours, the prognosis is not good. But you can go now and see him. Maybe your presence will help to find the way back." Sherlock had nodded and went to see his friend.

Now he took the visitors chair from the corner and moved it closer to the bed. Then he began to wait for John to wake up.

"Any news?" Lestrade entered the room a few hours later. Sherlock had not moved. "No, nothing has happened. He is still in a coma. I don't know what to do to change that, neither do the doctors."

"Did you call Harry?" Sherlock shook his head. "I cannot tell her that I couldn't save him."

"But he is alive. Sure you saved his life."

"Yes, I saved him to lead the life of a living dead." Sherlock looked at John. "If he never gains back consciousness it will be the same as if he had died." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "I've lost him either way."

"What is the prognosis?" Lestrade stepped forward to the still coated figure in the hospital chair. To him Sherlock looked absolutely lost.

"The next 48 hours will count. After that the hope that he will ever gain consciousness will fade with every hour." Sherlock turned his head to face Lestrade. "But they're still running tests. They tell me not to give up."

Lestrade swallowed. He had never seen the man so hopeless before. And for a short moment there was something else to see on the detectives face. It was guilt. Sherlock felt guilty for what had happened to John. Lestrade was surprised as he came to this conclusion. He had never thought that Sherlock could feel something like that. John Watson must have been much more than only a flatmate. Maybe he had brought out the human in Sherlock.

"The forensics are still working" Lestrade returned to business. "Iin the ruins of the building they have found the rests of the timer of the bomb and some remains from the explosives. The lab is working to find the handwriting of the bomber. We try to connect it to Moriarty but so far no success."

Sherlock said nothing because there was nothing to say. After a few seconds he turned his head again to watch John. Lestrade felt pity for the man in the chair. He hoped that John Watson would return soon. He shifted from foot to foot. Five minutes later he left.

In the afternoon Sherlock was still sitting in his chair. He had not left the room. Eyes transfixed on the man lying in the bed. Every now and then a nurse entered to check John's vitals.

As it grew dark outside John began to move in his bed. The heart-monitor showed increasing blood pressure and pulse frequency. Sherlock immediately called for the nurse and doctor. They ordered him out of the room.

The last thing he saw before the door closed was John. He had opened his eyes.


	4. Chapter 3

„Mr. Holmes, there is something you should know. After the detonation Dr. Watson's head must have bumped on the crates, he was hiding behind. This caused a Grade III-Concussion to his brain. Please take a look at these MRI-Pictures." Sherlock took a step closer to the light-table on which the pictures of John's skull and brain had been placed. He could see a slightly darker region in the area of his friends' forehead.

It was now the third day after the explosion. John was awake now but he wasn't awake in the common sense. The evening before Sherlock had to leave when the doctor had responded to his call. He hadn't been allowed to see John again for the rest of the night. He had sat down on the same bench he had spend the night before and waited. Only for a second the possibility of returning home had crossed his mind, but this hadn't been an option. He had to stay there. He would be here. This had been his second night without sleep. Twice a nurse had come by and offered him some tea but he had refused.

He had been going over the time before the explosion in his mind again and again. It had been like a movie that was playing over and over in his head. He had tried to analyze every second. Where had he made the mistake that had brought John here? He must have done something wrong that morning, he had been pretty sure. He had believed that John would be safe behind the crates.

And how did Moriarty fit in this scenario? He had been silent for over a year now. Sherlock hadn't been sure if it really had been Moriarty's plot. It felt wrong. Moriarty would have been more elegant. The puzzle on his website had been easy to solve, too obvious. No, Moriarty doesn't work that way, he had thought. So who could it be? Which criminal in London was interested in killing him and John Watson? Sherlock had frantically gone through the possible candidates, but there were too many to find the initiator right now. He had to wait until the crime lab found something. The odd thing was that he had not felt the urge as usually to do the forensics himself. His place was here. His job was to wait until they would let him visit John again.

At nine o'clock in the morning the waiting had been over and he had been accompanied by a nurse to see the doctor. The results from the tests had arrived.

The doctor pointed to the darker region of John's forehead. "I'm afraid, Dr. Watson hit his head very hard. As you can see the brain was slightly damaged in this area. We have run all the tests and we are sure, that the concussion caused an akinetic mutism." The doctor paused, but Sherlock knew already what this meant. John was out of coma and awake but would not talk or respond to anyone or anything at all. An akinetic mutism was often caused by concussions. It was a neurological syndrome, which made John silent and unable to communicate. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes, please listen carefully. The Akinetic mutism is a medical term describing patients who tend neither to speak nor move. It is the result of the frontal lobe injury." The doctor paused again.

"There is something else you should know." he went on. "This mutism is a special form. Normally the brain heals fast without medical help. No treatment is needed. A few days in bed and the patient will be as good as new. But here…The patient must want to heal. It is all about the willpower to talk and walk, to live. If Dr. Watson doesn´t want to get up and talk, then he might never do it again. If he has lost his will to communicate, it might be permanent." "Sometimes it is not only the concussion that causes the mutism." The doctor watched Sherlock closely. In a low voice he added "Sometimes the mental state of the patient is the cause, too. Or it prevents the healing."

Sherlock turned around. Slowly walking to the window, his mind was racing. John would never be John again. Never again he would make Sherlock eat, or make tea, or buy some milk, complain about him playing the violin at three o'clock in the morning. Look at him with these radiant eyes. Just silence where once his friend had been. But there had to be a way to make John talk again, to be himself again. Sherlock let out a silent sigh. All the time he had known, it was John who had kept him sane. It had been John, who had connected him to emotions. It was John, who had told him to shut up if he was saying something extremely rude. John had made him the closest thing to a human being he could ever be. He was his conscience. Sherlock never had thought that this could change. But it had. By losing John Sherlock had lost his connection to his heart. And he had lost his only friend. The only person in the world he trusted like himself. This was not acceptable.

"What can I do to make him want it? To get his will back? To get him out of the dark?" Sherlock demanded. "I will do anything."

"Honestly Mr. Holmes, there isn't much you can do. Strangely enough, on request Dr. Watson is moving a little bit. If we tell him to eat and drink he eats and drinks. If we give him clothes he puts them on. He responds to the commands the nurses are giving him. He is interested in his environment. He knows what's happening around him. He just does not interact. And we do not expect more for the moment. I advise you to admit Dr. Watson to a nursing home. There he will be cared for best. After a few days of monitoring you can also take him with you, if you wish. He is easy to take care of. And if he returns to his familiar surroundings it might help."

"Anything else, I should know?" Sherlock was only whispering.

"Hm, yes. There is one thing that you should know. One of the tests we were running was an EEG. And the results were a little bit strange. While Dr. Watson is awake, the EEG-waves are expectedly flat, due to the mutism. His brain's shut down every region that is not needed. But if he is sleeping, the EEG-waves circle. It looks like he is captured in an infinite loop of a dream or vision. It is only a guess, but he might re-live the last seconds before the detonation again and again every night."

Sherlock was taken aback. Reliving that moment again and again was like being in hell. He just couldn't imagine how that would feel. He had to get John out of this never ending nightmare. His decision what to do with John was made in an instant.

"I will take him home."


	5. Chapter 4

This was the third night that Sherlock watched John's sleep. It wasn't the easy sleep he'd expected. From what the doctor had said, he had thought John would sleep still and quiet, but he didn't.

The doctor had been right when he remarked that John would be an easy nursing case. On the day when they came home from hospital Sherlock escorted John into their flat and John went directly to his armchair. There he sat for the rest of the day and did not stir. He simply stared into nothing. Slowly it dawned to Sherlock that he had brought home a ghost. At first he did not let John out of sight. He did not want to miss, if John would move. But nothing happened. So Sherlock dropped himself onto the sofa and thought. Besides he kept an eye on John all the time.

As it was time to go to sleep, he guided John to his room upstairs, gave him his pyjamas, helped him change and tucked him into bed. John closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep at once. So Sherlock left the room and went to the living room. It occurred to him that it may be was not the best idea to take care of John himself. But he had the distinct feeling that it was his duty. All the time while they had shared the flat and solved Sherlock's cases, John was the one who was willing to give his life and save Sherlock's. It was he who took care of both of them, Sherlock wasn't that mindful of the danger in his life, because he was used to it and because he knew John would always watch his back. On John he could rely. John had kept him alive.

He paced the room up and down thoughts swirling in his head. Just now and then he stopped to take a look out of the window.

After a few hours of getting nowhere he heard a distant sound. Someone was giving a suffocated moan. He stopped to listen. Yes, there it was again. And it was coming out of John's room. Taking two steps at a time Sherlock stormed up the stairs. Slowly he opened the door and took a brief look at his friend. John was panting heavily. Something disturbed his dreams, just as the doctor had assumed.

Slowly he walked to John's bed. John was lying on his back. His chest was heaving heavily. He was sweating. As he got closer Sherlock could see a small stream of tears coming from the closed eyes. Something terrible was going on in John's mind. He was about to reach out to wake him up, but then stopped. He wasn't sure if this was a good idea. He didn't know what that would do to John's severed brain.

So Sherlock took the chair that stood in one corner of the room sat down and watched the sleep of John not knowing how to stop his nightmares.

The next day, at half past six in the morning to be exact, Sherlock called the hospital.

"You were right Doctor. I mean with the dreams of John Watson. I watched him last night and it was a constant circle. Every hour he began to sob and showed all signs of a bad dream. I wanted to make him stop, to wake him up. But I wasn't sure if that would do any harm."

"Hm, I know what you think, Mr. Holmes and I'm afraid that you are right. If you tore him from his tormented sleep, the circle of visions which repeat themselves night after night, it could be devastating. Now, I have another idea. It could help him if his unconsciousness knew he is not alone, that he doesn't have to endure the dream or vision on his own. That someone is by his side. So I advise you to make physical contact if the dream returns. Just touch his hand or something like that. It will not help at once, because his brain will need it's time to recognise the touch, but I would give it a try."

So the next night Sherlock got John into bed and stayed in his room in his chair as the previous night. He moved the chair to the right side of the bed. John lay on his back. He seemed to be asleep. After a few minutes his breathing accelerated. Sherlock covered John's hand with his. He made the physical contact the doctor had suggested. And then he waited.

He decided to treat John more normally. The day after the hospital had been a very silent one. Sherlock didn't speak a word because he knew John wouldn't answer him anyway.

But after the second night Sherlock couldn't endure the silence any longer.

After a few hours it dawned on him that only holding John's hand wasn't enough because it wasn't helping at all. John was caught in his dream. And nothing he could do would free him. Sherlock was at his wit's end.

The third night Sherlock put the chair aside and lay down next to John with the blanket between them. He slid close to John until their bodies touched from feet to shoulder. He inhaled deeply and tried to relax. Such a direct and intense body contact was exceedingly unusual for Sherlock. He had to give his body time to get used to this situation. Everything in him shouted for escape, but this was about John. So he deeply inhaled again and made his muscles relax. He leant his head against John's shoulder and closed his eyes.


	6. Interlude I John

With a cup of tea in reaching distance and his laptop in front of him on the table John is sitting in the kitchen. He is writing his blog. He wants to write down the last case Sherlock has solved. It was something with a lost blue diamond and hiding it in a vase of flowers. He doesn't care. Sherlock found the diamond in less than an hour. Not concentrating properly on the task in front his mind begins to wander. He feels he is unable to control his thoughts.

He is sitting there and musing about his life. Can he go on like this? Since he moved to 221b Baker Street his life has been a whirlwind of solving cases and chasing all kinds of criminals London comes up with and Sherlock's interested in. But lately John had recognized that he is changing. He is worn out. Sherlock demands his time, his brain and consumes mostly all of his power. He feels like there is only a small space left for himself and that´s moments like these when he is alone.

He sighs. He likes doing all the things he's doing for Sherlock. He really likes spending most of his time with the only consulting detective the world has ever seen. In fact he loves it. It makes him feel alive. But if he is honest, like he is now, he knows he is burning out. You can't expect to be in alert modus 24/7 and show no signs of exhaustion. It has been awhile since he last saw Sarah and his sister and all of the little rest of friends, who have remained after he has returned from Afghanistan. The odd thing is that he does not miss one of them, because he is with the only person he wants to be with.

Sometimes he steps back and watches himself from the outside with his medical skills. These are the moments when he is afraid for himself. He knows where he is heading.

He drinks too much, visits the pub around the corner just too often. The doctor's voice inside whispers "John you're going to have a clinical depression. You have to stop right now." But he refuses to listen to his own voice. He is ignoring himself completely.

John closes his eyes to prevent the tears which are building up inside. He buries his face in his hands and starts to cry. No, life can't go on like this. He feels so empty and cut off everything. Sometimes he can't even breathe properly. And if he is truly honest down to the bottom he misses one thing. The one thing that he will never have, because it can't be. He misses the one thing that makes his chest ache and his heart break. The love of the only person in the world who's important now and will ever be. Because, like he said on their very first evening, he is married to his work. And how could a sociopath feel something so intense and complicated like love?

Damn it Sherlock, he thinks. Why must it be you? Sarah would be a so much better, an easier choice and she was available. And he had tried hard to fall for Sarah. They had had several dates. And every time he tries to make the next step, maybe to kiss her, the face of Sherlock appears in his brain. He hears the deep soft voice of his friend and his heartbeat increases. Then he looks at the woman in front of him and he knows a relationship with her will never happen. His heart is protesting against thinking about this idea. His heart has a different opinion. The heart seeks what the heart wants. And Sarah is definitely not what his heart wants. John's heart wants Sherlock.

Whilst crying he feels that with his tears his will to endure this life is fleeing out of his body. Sometimes he thinks about moving out and finding another flatmate, or better a cheap flat that he can afford on his own. Everything will be better than to act against his nature every day. To hide his feelings for his friend is not easy and not only because Sherlock can read people like an open book. It is also that he has to hide his feelings from himself, trying to forget that they exist deep down inside him so he can go on with his everyday life. And that he can put up a good show and do whatever is Sherlock wants him to do.

He remembers one day at the clinic. He stood in front of the room with all the pharmaceuticals. He had fought hard with himself not to enter it and grab the first antidepressant he would see. He had debated this solution internal for a few times before. With Sherlock he needs a clear mind and the chemicals would not be the infinite solution to his problem. After a few minutes he had returned to his office without entering the room. So there will be no medical help for him.

He knows he is doing it for the greater good, even if it feels like sacrificing himself. Sherlock is needed and can't be sidetracked. He requires his clear and sharp mind to solve the cases. John knows he is the one to watch his back and give Sherlock the strength to do his job. He swears to himself to stay as long as possible. Maybe he just gets lucky and Sherlock awakes one day to find out that he is feeling the same for his flatmate.

At night John allows himself to dream sometimes. He has this dream that he confesses all the feelings which he has been holding back for so long now. And Sherlock would call him stupid idiot and kisses him. John shakes his head. No, that is just wishful thinking. This scenario will never occur.

He comes to the conclusion that he has to do something. He is not sure if the idea that is coming up in his mind is a good one. He is afraid of the results. On the other hand he is not ready to leave. He will have to call Mycroft and ask for his help. His mind is whirling.

He inhales deeply to steady his breathing. Slowly he gets up to find something to wipe his face. Dear Lord, if Sherlock comes in and sees him like this. No, he will not let that happen.


	7. Chapter 5

The first weeks after the explosion were not easy for Sherlock. The life in 221b Baker Street had changed rapidly. And though his brain had been always adapting very fast to new situations he struggled with their altering everyday life.

It was now his task to buy the groceries. He tried it twice and after queuing up for hours he decided that delivery service would be better. The housework, doing the laundry was strange land for him. He tried to give his best, but now and then he failed. Cooking for example was out of his grasp. Tea and some fried eggs he could manage, but with peeling potatoes he reached the end of his patience. One day he had tried to cook a whole meal. The kitchen had looked like one of his experiments had exploded. After that experience, he had decided that it had to be sandwiches or takeaway for dinner. Also, he had to remind himself constantly that John needed food on a regularly basis. So he had set three daily recurring alarms in his blackberry.

But these were only the visible changes. After a while Sherlock noticed other changes as well. He missed John's rumbling and complaining. John had made a lot of noises. His running up and down the stairs if he needed some air or was late for work always caused some sounds. Slamming the doors of course was John´s last resort if he had lost another argument (or found body parts where they didn't belong). He always complained about the mess which Sherlock had caused with an experiment in the kitchen or his smug comments about making tea for them. Sherlock missed all that. So he began to make some the noises himself. He clattered with the dishes. He now slammed the doors and rumbled down the stairs. One day Sherlock realized that he had adopted some of John's habits and turned to tell him, but stopped dead after the first words. John wouldn't answer.

He had tried the television as a constant background noise, but after half a day he gave up. He could not concentrate with this disturbing crap. So the flat remained silent most of the day. Sometimes, when the silence grew too loud, Sherlock sat in the armchair opposite John and he read something out to him. Or he took his violin and played whatever melody crossed his mind.

Music always had been Sherlock's secret passion. Playing the violin was his way to transport his feelings. It was his way to show his humanity that he was hiding behind the façade of the sociopath so well. Most of the time he communicated anger and frustration with his music because the solution of the actual case was close but out of reach, but when he now played for John he tried to show affection and understanding. Due to this change he also played different songs. If the music had been harsh and impatient before it now had become sweet and slow.

It was on one of these occasions when Sherlock noticed a change in John. The afternoon had been very quiet and he decided to play for John. Normally he played only if he had to solve a case. John had asked him a few times to play for him, but Sherlock had always refused. He closed his eyes and dived into the music.

At the end of the sonata he opened his eyes again. John had tilted his head like he was listening. Appalled by this sight Sherlock stopped his play at once. Slowly John moved his head back and for a short second Sherlock thought he could see some kind of disappointment on John's face. But he wasn't sure if his interpretation of the tiny flicker in John's facial expression was correct. So he raised the instrument again. A few notes of music had flown into the room as he saw it again. Slowly John laid his head to one side, closed his eyes and relaxed visibly. From that day on Sherlock played the violin only for John.

A few days later the same happened when he read something to John. His dark and velvet voice made something tingle inside John. He bent his upper part of the body slightly as if he wanted to listen closer.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he found a way to make the connection. Playing and reading could be the help that John needed to guide him back to life. He allowed himself to hope, that one day John would ask for more.

Another task he dreaded much was that he had to explain to John's sister Harriet and Mrs. Hudson what had happened. Both reacted in their own way to the bad news.

Harry had been drunk as Sherlock called her. He had tried to tell what had happened, but he hadn't been sure whether she had really understood the seriousness of John's state. However, he felt, he had fulfilled his duty. Harry had promised to visit soon, but Sherlock was sure that she was going to break that promise as soon as she opened her next bottle.

To inform Mrs. Hudson was not so easy all together. He invited her for tea into their flat. He let her in and busied himself in the kitchen by putting the kettle on. Of course she noticed immediately that John did not react as usual with the polite empty phrases to her chatter. As usual he sat in his armchair. Sherlock had shaved him this morning so John looked presentable. This was the only part in nursing John that was difficult for Sherlock. He had to help him with the body care. And John wasn't capable of shaving.

Sherlock seated her on the sofa and tried to explain what had happened. He also translated the diagnosis of the doctors what he thought was into understandable English. Mrs. Hudson was horrified.

„Oh, my Dear! Poor Dr. Watson! How could such an awful thing happen to him?" She seemed shocked. She turned her head and watched John carefully. "No sign of consciousness since then? But where is Dr. Watson? He must be somewhere in there, mustn't he?"

"Oh he is conscious. He knows exactly what is going on around him. He is just not in the mood to talk, if you know what I mean." Sherlock replied.

"Isn't there something one can do to help?" Mrs. Hudson shifted in her seat.

Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen to get the tea. He placed one cup on the coffee table for Mrs. Hudson. One cup he put on the side table next to John's armchair. He watched John automatically reaching out for his tea, and he turned to look at the landlady.

"That is...that is... I´m sorry Sherlock, but that is creepy." Mrs. Hudson shuddered.

"Yes, it is." Sherlock took a sip of tea and walked slowly to the window. As he observed the life outside the flat he said hoarsely "I've taken him to the best specialists in the city. They all state the same diagnosis. They all advise me to give John time to heal. They say that he will get better without any medication."

After a few minutes of silence he could hear Mrs. Hudson rising from the sofa. He turned to see her standing next to John. She patted his shoulder and with a nod in Sherlock's direction she left the flat.


	8. Chapter 6

A month after John had been released from hospital Sherlock took his first case from Lestrade. The Detective Inspector asked him to help the police with a serial burglar. Although the crime seemed dull he took it. He would solve the case fast, about that he was sure, but it was a new beginning after the explosion.

The only problem was that Sherlock would have to take a look at the crime scenes. What should he do with John? Mrs. Hudson would see after him. She had offered several times to keep an eye on John if he had to do something outside the flat. But Sherlock had declined every time. It felt wrong. It was his job to look after John. He could not explain this sudden sense of duty, but he did not fight against it. Perhaps, these decisions were triggered by a tiny glimpse of guilt, he admitted to himself sometimes. The decision that John would be safe behind the crates had been Sherlock's. A security that had proved to be treacherous. And thus he decided to take John with him to the crime scene.

He did not think that there would be a problem. He had already gone for a walk several times with John, and John followed him everywhere. He always kept close. He sat silently beside him on the bench in the park and if Sherlock came to a stand John stopped always at his side. It was as if they were connected with an invisible bond which loosened only if they were in their flat. Sherlock sometimes had the feeling that John wanted to assure him that he was with him, and that he would not leave him.

Lestrade had given him the address of the last crime scene and Sherlock ordered a cab. He knew they would attract some curious looks from the other police men, but he didn't bother. Lestrade, besides Mycroft, who to Sherlock's disapproval showed up disturbingly often, was the only one who was visiting regularly. He had seen John several times and had slowly gotten used to his silence.

The first time he visited to keep Sherlock up with the results of the investigation of the last explosion. "The crime lab has identified the explosives that had been used for the bomb." Lestrade had reported. Reading the lab report from a sheet of paper he had continued "The biggest surprise was that the bomber had used a completely different mixture of explosive substances." Sherlock had snatched the lab report from Lestrade's hands. „So, the bomb from the pool had been composed of C4 better known as Semtex as I remember. That's an explosive often used for civil or industrial purposes. The bomb from the storage hall contained TNT and RDX it says here." Sherlock had sat down in his armchair and waved with the lab report. He furrowed his brows. "This is strange; because this combination called Composite B nowadays is used by the military. It made no sense that Moriarty should change the composition of his bombs." He lay the paper aside and steepled his hands under his chin. After some moments of deep thought he had faced the still standing Lestrade. "What about the handwriting of the bomber? Was it the same construction?" Lestrade had shaken his head. "No, the bomb´s construction is different also. The pieces we have found in the storage hall imply that the bomb was built by a different person. The bomb from the warehouse had a timer. Moriarty's bombs all had detonators, which were activated by radio." Sherlock had thrown another look on the lab report. "Lestrade, the explosive power of the bomb would not have been sufficient enough to destroy the building. On the contrary, compared to the used explosives the effect was to strong." Lestrade had rubbed his head and had taken the report out of Sherlock's hands. After he had studied the sheet again, he noted perplexed: "The bomb should have caused only minor damage." Sherlock had nodded. "The bomb was meant to look more dangerous than it actually was. Here, someone had planned something else. The bomb was not intended to kill John and me. Something has gone wrong." Sherlock had felt bewildered. An important piece of the puzzle hadn't fallen into the right place yet. He would need more data.

The cab arrived at the crime scene. It was a nice little red bricked row house in a street with similar looking houses. The neglected front garden was scattered with toys and two tricycles. Two police cars parked in the street. One police officer was sitting in his vehicle and was talking to Sergeant Sally Donovan. Sherlock paid the cabbie, pulled on his gloves and helped John to get off the taxi.

On the threshold Lestrade was waiting for them. "Nice little home here," he stated. "Family with two children. Father is still at work, kids are twins aged five, spent the morning in the kindergarten. The mother returned after a shopping spree with her friend and found the front door open."

"Was something stolen?" Sherlock scanned the house, the front garden and the neighborhood closely.

"According to Mrs. Thomas, that's the mother, nothing but a pair of her earrings. Of course she's not finished with checking all the rooms. Judging by the Modus Operandi of the burglar this is the forth break-in of the same guy. He only steals a piece of jewelry from the women."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Only a pair of earrings, interesting. The other three break-ins, where the women always married with children? I need to know! Lestrade, I want to study the files of the other cases. Bring them to our flat." he instructed the other man. Lestrade nodded and turned to enter the building.

"Come on John, let's go inside and take a look." Sherlock was about to follow the DI as a sneer from behind stopped him dead.

"Oh look, the Freak got himself a Zombie!" Sally Donovan laughed. "Hey Freak! Is your Zombie domesticated?"

Sherlock turned on his heels. His eyes sparkling with wrath and hatred he grabbed the collar of her jacked. He rammed his nose in her face and hissed "You can call me all you want, but say Zombie once more and I will turn you into one!"

"Sergeant Donovan! Apologize! Immediately!" Lestrade shouted red-faced from the threshold. "And if I ever hear a thing like that again from you or anybody else I will start a disciplinary procedure! Is that understood? Good! And please tell Anderson so I don't have to repeat myself." During his little speech the color of his face had returned to normal but he was still furious.

Sally Donovan shivered with fear. Tears sprang into her eyes. She blushed and struggled with the embarrassing situation. "I'm sorry." she whispered in Sherlock's direction. She tried to evade his wrath, but his eyes held her in place. "Don't waste your apologies on me. Tell John that you are sorry."

Then he forced himself to let go of her jacket and stormed into the house. In the hallway he stopped and tried to get a grip on himself. That had been an ugly scene. Just breathe in and breathe out, don't kill her, he told himself. Suddenly he felt somebody touching him. Expecting Lestrade he raised his head. John stood silently at his side, one hand on his shoulder.


	9. Chapter 7

A few hours later, Sherlock sat on the sofa. The flames of the fire that he had lit earlier to protect the living room from the evening cool danced in the fireplace. The open case files lay scattered on the coffee table. He had already studied them thoroughly. Lestrade had brought the files over himself and had used the occasion to apologize once more for the behaviour of Sally Donovan. "Look, I am very deeply sorry." he had said as he had handed the files over. "I know Sally doesn't like you. But I just hadn't realized that she could be so cruel." He shrugged. "Never mind," had been Sherlock's brusque reply. He had taken the files and complimented the Detective Inspector out of the flat. "I need to concentrate! I will call you."

Actually, the solution should be obvious, he thought as he scanned the photographs of the crime scenes once more, but it always eluded his grasp. The crime scene photographer had captured the violated bedrooms from all possible angles. In particular, the places where the now missing jewels had been stored were documented by close-ups. Three of the four women had kept the jewelry in the wardrobe, one in the dresser. Sherlock was sure he had already seen the evidence for his theory, but his brain refused to connect his observations. This was frustrating. With a quick move he wiped the crime scene photos from the table. They sailed in between the two armchairs to the ground. He already had tried to discuss the problem with John, but the lack of his participation was not very helpful. This was one of the reasons why Sherlock rarely spoke with John. Just like the skull on the mantel piece John remained silent.

Annoyed, he ran his fingers through his dark curls and rubbed his face. His eyes fell on John. His memory of the afternoon at the crime scene flared up again. John had been standing for a while in the hallway of the Thomas family at his side, the hand on his shoulder. His grip felt good and familiar, as if he wanted to reassure Sherlock that Sally Donovan had not offended him. Her meanness had awakened a protective instinct in the Consulting Detective, of which he had no idea it existed. There in the hallway with John at his side he calmed down again. However, when he threw a glance at his friends face he was emotionless as ever. John's eyes drifted through the middle of nowhere.

Only after a while it occurred to Sherlock that they both would be able to stand there for an eternity. John would not move. So he had taken his friend's hand down and went into the living room to talk to Mrs. Thomas. The echo of John's hand had still burned on his shoulder.

Sherlock's thoughts drifted further away. In his head he opened the part of his mind, in which he had stored the memories of the John before the explosion. He extracted the pictures and overlapped them on the now silent man sitting in the armchair. He missed the talking and living John more with each passing day. In his mind he saw John opening the refrigerator and finding the head he had brought home from the morgue. John, who complained about one of his experiments that had destroyed some part of the interior. John, who stood in the doorway, stunned by the fact that he had to go to court, although he was not the graffiti artists. He could hear him yell, "Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!" Sherlock grinned, but then the grinning shifted into a mockery of a grin and ended up in a mask of distress. The missing sound of his friend's voice that was conjured up by his brain, made him cringe inside. He had so often called John an idiot that he couldn't count the numbers, but John had always added something clever to help with the solutions of their cases. Often enough it was John's voice that asked him to obey the rules of social etiquette. And sometimes it was just the sound of that voice, which reminded Sherlock of the fact that he was no longer alone and lonely. His best and only friend. The scenes of memory changed to John, who stood before him and confessed the shooting of the cabbie. The flashes of blue eyes as John chuckled at the crime scene. At the poolside the same eyes had looked trustingly and he had put his life in the hands of Sherlock and had accepted any decision that he would make. Live or die? John, always at his side, always ready to give everything, even his life. What would he do without John? He was frightened of this possibility.

Sherlock pulled his feet up on the sofa and leaned his head on his knees. His mind wandered on and continued with the nights after the explosion. Prior to that, John had had nightmares very rarely. Sherlock could hear him scream some nights when he wandered around the living room because he could not sleep. But that was at the very beginning when John had moved in. After a while the nightmares were seldom visitors of John's sleep. Since the third night after the hospital Sherlock no longer let John sleep alone. At first he had had his difficulties. His body was not used to these close contacts, did not want to be there. It had taken time to feel comfortable. But after a couple of nights Sherlock noticed that exactly this closeness felt good. He had always struggled with insomnia, but with John by his side it was more and more easy to relax. Even during the day he started to miss the contact, so he put his hand on John's shoulder, or his thigh, hooked on his arm as they took a walk, or just leaned his head against John, as they sat on the sofa together. Sherlock had not known what had been lacking from his life, but it dawned on him that it was his friend, who made him complete. Every evening when they went to bed he was overcome by the feeling that he had arrived home finally. The positive effect for John was that the doctor from the hospital had been right. The nightmares were indeed not completely gone, but their intensity had decreased. The intervals between the circles were getting longer and longer as time passed. Meanwhile, John dreamed only at the beginning of the night. When the dream began Sherlock laid a hand on his chest, on his heart and whispered to him that he would guard his sleep. "I won't leave you alone!" were his last words to John each night. Then, he could always feel the heartbeat slowing down and John drifting into peaceful realms of his subconscious.

And suddenly it clicked in his mind. John was more than a friend. They were both the halves of a whole. Together they formed a functioning unit. Without John, he was only a heartless working machine. John had shown him the door to another Sherlock. There was something deep inside him that wanted to emerge. The suppressed feelings which Sherlock had banned for many years, with John's help crawled slowly back to the surface of his being. Now with John unable to speak, he felt frozen in the process. Like a cork that was stuck halfway in a bottle of champagne, the pressure down below building up. It felt completely wrong. Sherlock knew he wanted the old healthy John, needed him so fiercely that it hurt.

And John, for whatever problems he had, Sherlock wished that he could tell him so they would work together to find a solution. Because he was sure that something had happened to John in the days before the explosion. Sherlock had noticed small changes in John's behavior in the previous days. He was nervous and jumpy, but also subdued and sad at the same time. Whenever John thought he had been distracted, he had studied Sherlock. Sherlock had felt the looks washing over his body. However, he had hoped that John would tell him. But no, quite the contrary, John had pulled away gradually as if Sherlock would cause him physical pain. He had never observed a similar behavior before. Just as he would be waiting for something special to happen John had moved around the flat cautiously. Like he expected something important to occur, but feared the result. As if he knew something Sherlock didn't. Should he call Mycroft and ask for John's monitoring protocols? No, bad idea. He would owe Mycroft for this favour.

Riddles he couldn't solve around him everywhere, he rose from the sofa and began to pace the living room up and down. In front of the fireplace he came to a halt and gazed into the dancing fire. After a few minutes he bent down with a sigh, and began to collect the scattered photos. One had landed right in front of John's left foot. Sherlock reached to grab the photo and looked up. The dancing flames conjured up the impression of affection on his friend's face. Just an illusion, Sherlock told himself. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. As he opened his eyes again his look fell on the photograph in his hand. Sherlock froze. With a silent "Oh", he stood up and dropped the photos again. He looked around for his cell phone and found it in his jacket, which he had thrown over the armrest of the sofa earlier. With one finger he pushed the second speed dial button.

"Lestrade, it is not a burglar. The criminal is preparing a series of murders. Yes, Lestrade, the killer has marked his future victims during the break-ins. We must act quickly if we want to prevent the first murder. We are on our way. It's the address of the second victim Mrs. Kyle."


	10. Chapter 8

The road they drove through was an exact copy of the crime scene that morning. The house number 8 had been cordoned off with barrier tape. Three police cars, an ambulance and a civil police vehicle had been parked in front of it. The blinking lights on all cars dipped the whole street line in coldblue light. They were too late.

With John on his coats-tail Sherlock entered the house. He could see the victim's husband in the living room sitting on the couch. The man had his face buried in his hands and sobbed. On the table stood a forgotten cup of tea and beside him Sergeant Donovan was waiting. She tried to take his statement, but at the moment Mr. Kyle was incapable of saying a word.

"Sherlock, up here," Lestrade waved from the landing on the first floor. "The crime scene is in the bedroom."

"The victim is Mrs. Evelyn Kyle, aged 35. After the first examination, I would assume that the woman died of blood loss. Multiple stab wounds to the chest. She has been dead for two hours," Anderson explained his first results to the Detective Inspector just as Sherlock walked into the bedroom.

The victim was lying in bed on her back. Her hands had been folded neatly on her belly. Her long brown hair was draped on the white linen. A large patch of blood had formed on the fabric of her jacket above her breast. Sherlock scanned the room and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Besides the door a blue box with toys was stored. Next to it stood a dresser which was decorated with some family photos and a bowl of jewelry. With his magnifying glass Sherlock examined the photos. Then he turned around and took a closer look at the corpse. From the background he could hear Anderson complaining. Sherlock shut out the whining. With a firm grip he turned the body on one side, inspected the sheets below and let the body slid back into its original position. He opened the jacket of the woman and looked at the visible stab wounds in her chest. Anderson bleated louder now. He wanted to prevent John to walk into the bedroom. "This is a crime scene. If this bloke contaminates it, I give no guarantee for valuable results." Sherlock gritted his teeth and rose quickly. He stepped into the hall, whispering to John, "Please wait for me here. I'll be right back with you." After a few seconds of hesitation, John stepped back and tried no more to pass the door.

On his way back to the bedroom Sherlock addressed the forensic expert coldly: "Anderson, honestly, how often did your mother let you fall on your head as a baby? This woman over there is dead more than two hours; blood loss is definitely not the cause of death. There is not enough blood underneath her." He snorted and bent back down to the body.

"Why do you suppose she is dead longer than two hours?" Lestrade appeared in the obligatory blue overall in the door frame. Anderson had gone further back into the hallway and was sulking. He was obviously guarding John, ready to hold him back, if he should dare to follow Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "It's simple. The body was dressed by her husband. Look at the composition of her clothes. She wears a blue mini skirt with red tights and a yellow hooded jacket. And now take a look around the bedroom. Bedrooms are always decorated by women. Such a combination of colors she would never have chosen. This room is almost colorless. Beige carpet, white walls. Even the linen is white. And it is meticulously tidy. Just over there is the wardrobe door slightly ajar. The victim would wear colorful clothes only very rarely and when only one colorful garment at a time, which is confirmed by a look at the family photos over here." He pointed to the row of photographs on the dresser. "No, I'm sure the husband has clothed her after he found her. Go and ask him. He will tell you, that he was ashamed. He didn't want the police to see his wife naked. He took the first available clothing that he could find in the closet. Dressing his wife should have taken quite a while. The tights had cost him an eternity. Mrs. Kyle is dead at least three hours and she was naked, when the murderer was finished with her. The patterns of the stab wounds in her chest and the blood scheme on her jacket doesn't allow any other conclusion."

Lestrade pulled a face. "And what do you think caused her death, Sherlock?"

"One stab direct into the heart. That is the only wound that has bled enough. After her death, the murderer has stabbed her a few times, but these wounds have only bled a little. No wonder since the heart didn't pump any more blood. The other wounds should only confuse us." Sherlock stood up and took another look around the bedroom. In front of the box with toys he bent down and examined the content more closely. "Ah!"

"What? What is it?" Lestrade stood beside him. With pointed fingers Sherlock removed a small rectangular piece of plastic from the box. He turned it in his hand. On this side a flower was visible. It was a Mahjong stone. He examined it closely.

"This stone is not made of plastic. I think the laboratory examination will reveal that the stone was carved from bone and is very old." Sherlock said after some time. "I saw this Mahjong stone in the blue box in one of the photographs in your case files. At all crime scenes a toy-box had been found in the parents' bedroom. Small children between the ages of three to five years belong to every household. Every night the worried parents take the dangerous toys and store them along. They want to ensure that the children are not left alone and play with them without parental supervision." Sherlock opened the first drawer on the dresser and examined the contents. He felt that Lestrade was getting impatiently behind him. "But how did you get the idea that the burglar would actually be a murderer? And more importantly, how did you come up with the theory that the burglary victim Number 2 would be the first murder victim?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and turned to the DI. "Obvious, isn't it? At each crime scene there is a toy box, a toy box in which an added Mahjong stone wouldn't be suspicious. Let this fact be checked by your officers at the other crime scenes. The murderer has chosen the series of flowers from the Mahjong. He has added something to each of the crime scenes, a flower as a gift to the women. And he has taken something from each of the crime scenes, the jewelry as an anticipated trophy for the planned murder. So, the series of flowers in the Mahjong has a sequence: plum, orchid, chrysanthemum and bamboo. He has set the first stone of the plum to the second burglary victim Mrs. Kyle; ergo the killer had planned her as the first murder victim." Sherlock turned to go. "When you have the results from the other houses, let me know. And I would recommend the remaining three ladies be put under police protection. Considering the time-schedule of the break-ins the killer will not take too long to strike again."

In the hallway Sherlock got rid of the latex gloves. He had seen enough. Now he just needed to find out what connection existed between the victims. There had to be a connection between the women, a tiny connection that would lead to the murderer. He would have to talk to the husband in the living room below. "John, you are done waiting. Thank you. Now to the living room, come with me, please." Followed by Lestrade and John Sherlock led the mini-procession downstairs.


	11. Chapter 9

The sobbing of the husband had faded and was replaced by sniffles as they entered the living room. Sergeant Donovan asked him questions which he answered calmly. His face was swollen and he ran his hands through his hair constantly. "I was working today. She should have picked up the kids from the kindergarten. It was after four o'clock as the kindergarten teacher called me. Darren and Chris, our twins, were still there," Mr. Kyle sniffled. A small mountain of used tissues was building up next to the teacup on the coffee table.

"And so you fetched the children." It was a statement, no question, as Sherlock took over the survey."After that you went home - to find out why your wife had not done her job as usual." The husband nodded.

Donovan shot a dirty look at the trio that stood in the passage to the hall. Lestrade was just peeling out of the overalls, but he looked up as Sherlock took over. He shook his head slightly to indicate to Sally to let Sherlock do the interrogation. He should ask his questions.

Sherlock rushed into the living room and sat down on the chair opposite to the couch. John followed him on his heels and stood at his side.

"Your wife was a housewife, I assume, and it was her job to pick up the kids from the kindergarten. But why didn't you bring the children into the house directly, but sent them into the garden to play? I reckon that you weren't willing to let your wife get away with this blunder and you did not want the children as witnesses to your little lesson. Then, you went up to the bedroom to change from your working clothes to casual wear. You are still wearing two different shoes and your shirt is buttoned up messily. You found your wife naked and dead on the bed. After the first shock you dressed her and then you called the police. You did not want her to be seen naked by strangers and in the progress you destroyed most of the evidence on the body. Really annoying." Sherlock fell silent. Mr. Kyle's mouth hung open and he was obviously outraged and even forgot to sniff.

Lestrade drew his eyebrows together in astonishment. He didn't intervene because he knew that Sherlock in the momentum of the initial excitement of a new case came up with the best results. His technique should probably open up the husband, although the Detective Inspector did not feel comfortable about it, the provocation was effective.

"I ...No! How dare you say that I beat my wife? Never! This is something I would never do! The children are playing in the garden every afternoon. They are so lively. Playing in the fresh air helps them fall asleep more easily at night. Evelyn would never forgive me ..." He trailed off.

"Hm, interesting. Why was her upper body full of bruises then? They had the typical shape, which form only when someone is being punched with the naked fist on the body." Sherlock moved his eyebrows up, and let the conclusions hanging in the air.

The grieving widower's face turned slowly red - and he had evidently forgotten his grief for the moment. "I loved my wife! I would never do raise a hand against her. This is an incredible accusation! Evelyn was training at a martial arts gym. She wanted to be able to defend herself if someone attacks her in the park. She always went with some friends to Jiu Jitsu class in the morning. The coach has never spared them. This explains the bruises." Mr. Kyle snorted with rage now. "And yes, I did dress her as I found her. It would have been humiliating for her, if someone had seen her naked. I could not bear the thought." Fresh tears sprang into his eyes and he looked around for the tissues.

Sherlock nodded knowingly. "Martial arts. Yes, that's what I thought. Well, I would have, based on the pattern of blue spots, probably guessed it was Tae Kwon Do, but maybe the coach is trained in several forms of martial arts. Lestrade, you have to ask the other women if they are also training at the same dojo. This could be the common link." Sherlock rested his arms on his thighs, put his hands together like in prayer, and leaned his head on them. He turned to the husband again. His brown hair stuck out now in all directions. "And why was your wife in treatment? She must have been there recently. On the hands and face I found the typical wounds of acupuncture needles."

"The therapist? That would be Mr. Druitt the alternative practitioner. I uh, I think he has his practice in the same building as the gym. She had regular appointments there. We wanted to have a third child and the practitioner had helped us five years ago. Evelyn had had problems getting pregnant, but after a few sessions it had worked beautifully. The twins are our all in all. Therefore, we thought she could start the treatment right away this time." He hung his head and they heard him sobbing loudly again.

Sherlock rose. It was clear that Mr. Kyle was unable to tell them anymore that was relevant. He had just realized that from now on he was alone with his two sons. The extent of his loss became apparent to him right in this moment.

"Lestrade, during the autopsy, please let them do a pregnancy test also. We should be sure, if Mrs. Kyle was pregnant again. You can find me afterwards in the laboratory of St. Bart's. I have to examine this Mah-jongg stone." He turned to go. John followed in his wake. At the front door, he turned around again. "Oh, and Lestrade, I would like to see some recently taken photographs of the four families. With all family members in it!" Lestrade nodded, and he watched the two disappear through the door. They made a stop at the civilian car of the forensics and Sherlock demanded the evidence bag with the now preserved and labelled Mah-jongg stone and an empty bag. He reluctantly signed the receipt, and then he called a cab for himself and John.

The trip to St. Bart's was a silent one. Sherlock turned the bag in his hands back and forth and looked at the game piece from all sides, but it would not divulge any secrets now. He pulled the empty bag from his coat pocket and wrapped a handkerchief in it. He felt a tingle of expectation in his fingertips. For more than six weeks he had not been to the laboratory and could therefore hardly wait for doing the necessary tests himself. At their destination, he helped John out of the cab and they both entered the hospital. As he pushed open the door to the hospital Sherlock inhaled deeply. Only now he realized how much he had been missing all this here. A quiet smile played across his lips. He took John's arm and together they went up to the lab.

He threw his coat over the back of a chair in the corner and pointed John to a seat. He turned to the table to work with the analytical equipment and commenced his studies. He took the bag with the handkerchief and produced one blond hair from it. After a while the door opened and Molly appeared, armed with a cup of coffee.

"Black, two sugars and freshly brewed." She smiled and put the coffee on the table next to Sherlock. "Thank you, Molly," he murmured absently. He took a sip and focused again on the microscope. "Ahem, excuse me, uh, I just wanted to ask, how is Dr. Watson?" She stepped nervously from one foot to the other and smiled shyly. "What do you think how he is?" Sherlock looked up impatiently from his work and glanced at John, who was still sitting in the chair that Sherlock had assigned him to. "It's obvious, isn't it? He is doing well so far, only he does not speak yet." He turned around and stared with one raised eyebrow at Molly. "Um, okay, good. I go back to the morgue, if you need me," she said, and fled. Sherlock looked again at John. He scanned the face of his friend a moment and sighed. "Not Good? I just need to do my work here. Oh John, you know exactly, I cannot help it, right? I don't do courtesy." He shrugged and looked back through the microscope.

After an hour and several experiments later the door to the lab opened again and Lestrade entered. "And? Do you have any results Sherlock?"

"Yes, just like I already suspected the Mah-jongg stone was carved from bone. Old traditional Chinese workmanship. And at least twenty years old. The flower was painted by hand on the stone. I think if we can find the rest of the game it will also lead us to the culprit. These stones are very rare nowadays. The Chinese produce their Mah-jongg tiles mainly from plastic and the symbols have been modernized. This stone here was still made the old fashioned way. Something like this one can't buy in England anymore. The game was directly imported from China or someone had bought it there." During his speech, Sherlock had risen and had thrown his coat over. "I assume that the four victims have all trained in the same studio. Your investigation has revealed that, right?" Lestrade just nodded and asked himself for the umpteenth time how Sherlock had foreseen the result already. He refrained, however, to ask, as Sherlock would otherwise demonstrate his incredible knowledge on an epic scale.

"Well! I think it is time that we take a look at this dojo and the coach closely." Thus, Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves. John had already risen and joined the other two men. The three of them left the lab. Molly's coffee stood unnoticed and turning cold on the table.


	12. Chapter 10

On their way in the cab unusually accompanied by Lestrade, the Detective Inspector informed Sherlock about the owner. He had already made inquiries beforehand and whipped out his notepad. "The dojo is owned by a certain Thomas Harris, aged 38. He had started training as a plumber after school, but then his career in combat sports, mainly Jiu Jitsu and Tae Kwon Do, Judo and Karate, turned out very successful. He has won several national championships in the various disciplines, but after a serious injury to his left knee he opened his own dojo. He has learned his art with various senseis, ah yes here it is," Lestrade had refreshed his memory by using his notes. He flipped to a specific page. "Among other things, he has spent two years with interruptions in China."

Sherlock nodded and added, "And probably bought a beautiful and old set of Mah-jongg stones." He looked expectantly out of the window. "Well, yes, we will soon see whether he is missing a few stones." He turned to the stack of family photos he had ordered, flipping through them one after another. He smiled self-satisfied, as if he found his suspicions confirmed, but said nothing.

The gym was located on the third floor of a business and medical centre. A large sign had been fitted outside the building they were heading for. It showed directions to all inhabitants, the medical practitioners and the dojo. Sherlock studied it extensively before they entered the building.

They met Thomas Harris in his office. The man was lean and athletic, he wore a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. On his head was not a single hair, Thomas Harris had shaved his head to baldness. "I've done it out of practicality. There are always students who like to grab ones hair," the coach said hinting towards his head. The dojo was decorated with colourful Asian artifacts, but his office was simple and functional. On his desk stood a carved and polished wooden box about the size of a standard sheet of paper.

Of course all women, who had been burgled, he knew from his training. They had all attended the same self-defence classes and he had coached them all. He expressed his dismay over the death of Mrs. Kyle, but his grief was still in appropriate limits. Sherlock and Lestrade had taken seat in front of the desk. Sherlock knew that John was standing directly behind his chair. He did not have to turn around. He could feel his presence. It felt like he was sitting in front of a heater or a fireplace, the heat warming his body. It gave him a sense of belonging and security. After a deep breath, he shook his head inwardly to focus on Mr Harris' testimony, but the latter had not much further to tell about the murder victim. So Sherlock turned to the only item of interest on the desk.

"Mr Harris, may I ask, what is inside this wooden box?" Sherlock stretched out his hand, but stopped before touching the box to wait for permission. Mr Harris nodded and said simultaneously, "Therein you will find an old set of Mah-jongg stones. Do you know what Mah-jongg is? I bought the game on one of my many trips to China. The shop seller assured me that it was very old and very valuable, but I paid a reasonable price." Triumphantly Sherlock inspected the contents of the box. He could see at first glance that four stones were missing. He slammed it shut with an impact.

"Mr Harris, when did you last time cast a glance into this box? " Sherlock studied his opposite vigilantly. "Hm, I do not open the box each day and it's been a while since I've played ." Sherlock's lips twitched into a self-satisfied smile. He changed the subject. "And do all the doctors with a practice in this building come here to attend your courses?"

"Actually, I teach almost all of them," nodded Mr Harris. „They all come more or less regularly to their class. Only Mr Druitt, the alternative practitioner from the first floor I have not seen around for some time. The last time he had apologized himself with a strained ankle. That was three weeks ago." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Thank you, Mr Harris that you have sacrificed your time to see us. The information you have given just solved the case." Sherlock rose and turned to go. Lestrade, who was still sitting in his chair, looked stunned and blankly watched as Sherlock and John were leaving. Then he hurried after the two flatmates, who had already left the studio. He quickly said goodbye to the sensei and then joined Sherlock in the stairways.

"Stop! Stop! Sherlock! Stop! Why has Mr Harris's information solved the case? And why didn't we arrest him? Just several minutes ago in the cab you have said that who owns the Mah-jongg stones would be the murderer."

"Ah, why did actually nobody listen to me properly?" Sherlock remained still on the landing between the third and second floor. Short-Tempered, he whispered, "I said, if we find the rest of the game, it will lead us to the murderer. I have never claimed that the owner of the game is also the murderer." He turned around and wanted to continue his descent. Lestrade held him firmly on the sleeve of his coat. "But this explains nothing! Why do we have to hurry?"

Unwillingly Sherlock shook off the hand of the Detective Inspector. His whisper grew impatiently. „Look Lestrade, we now need to act quickly. The practitioner has his practice on the first floor. If, and it's a big if, but nonetheless, if Mr. Harris will tell him of our visit and that I have asked about him and the Mah-jongg stones, he is forewarned. We have to prevent that. I explain everything to you later, but now we have to catch a murderer, who is not yet finished with his work. Come along!" Sherlock flew down the stairs until he stood in front of the door of Mr. Druitt practice. He tried the door handle and the door was not locked. He quickly sneaked into the practice, not paying attention whether John and Lestrade were following him.

The reception area of the practice was deserted and nobody was sitting in the waiting room. Working hours had probably already been over. But from one of the back rooms they could hear the soft tapping on a computer keyboard. Sherlock stayed close to the wall of the hallway, which lead further into the practice. On the right and left were doors which led to the treatment rooms. They were all closed. At the end of the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar and a little light illuminated the otherwise dark hallway. Sherlock felt that John and the Detective Inspector drew level with him. He took the few feet to the open room with supple, long steps silently. With a slam he opened the only half open door completely. A tall blond man in white doctor's clothes was sitting behind a desk. He typed on his computer and heard the intruders just as Sherlock entered the room.

"Mr. Druitt, I suppose." It was more of a statement than a question as Sherlock entered the room. The practitioner looked up from his work and rose slowly. "Yes, and you are?" He looked tense. Apparently he had not expected any visitors at this late hour. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and we are here to arrest you for the murder of Mrs Evelyn Kyle and also four burglaries. Also, it will be proven later that you have raped four women multiple times."

Sherlock was now standing in the middle of the room. Mr. Druitt came around slowly from behind his desk and moved towards the men in his way. "Oh, and how did you figure that out?" He hid his right hand behind his back while he stood next to his desk. "Your sticky fingers and your blond hair have led me to you. Unfortunately, you have been given away by genetics. All your children are blond, just like you are. The mothers, Mrs Thomas and Mrs Kyle, and the two other victims, as well as the alleged fathers do all have brown hair. You should have chosen your victims more carefully. It should have occurred to you that if all the brown haired couples produced only blond haired children, that they will become suspicious at one point. You should have known that they would talk to each other. And sooner or later one of them would make the connection. How did the women track you? Have they visited you one after another and all suspected what you did? I think it was something like that. And then they have cornered you. They all wanted to sue you. If this had gone public, it would have meant the ruin for your business. And so you decided to eliminate the witnesses. And your plan was so clever. Playing serial killer, but you were stupid enough to lose a blond hair at your first murder scene. You were so thorough, when you stabbed Evelyn Kyle. Cleaned the body. Left no evidence. You should have been as precise with your break-in when you left the Mah-jongg stone behind. It was rather sloppy of you. Then I would not have found the blond hair which has led us to you."

With Sherlock's last words Druitt jumped for the door. He saw his only salvation in flight. The hand that had been hidden behind his back swung forward. He was holding a scalpel in his hand and pointed it at Sherlock. The latter hesitated for a moment and then wanted to turn out of the danger zone, as a shadow darted past him. John had followed Sherlock into the room and as Druitt attacked him he jumped at him instantly. Druitt turned his attention to John and with a cry he threw himself onto him. Together, they fell to the ground. John held the murderer in a headlock using his right arm. After a few seconds, his eyelids began to flutter and then closed fully. With a sigh, his head tilted to one side and his right arm felt powerless to the ground.

"John!… John!"With a left hook Sherlock knocked out the struggling practitioner and knelt down in one fluid motion besides John. He touched his jacket and drew back his hand. It was red. John's jacket was getting wet with his own blood. "John! Stay awake! Stay with me! Do not leave me! If you leave me again I will kill you!" Next to him, he heard a metallic click. Lestrade had handcuffed the unconscious Druitt and had taken out his phone. Sherlock could hear him hastily call for an ambulance. He did not care. His attention focused on the man who lay before him on the floor. Frantically, he opened the jacket of his friend. The jumper was changing colour slowly from grey to red and the scalpel stuck in John's left side.


	13. Chapter 11

Déjà vu, Sherlock thought. Barely two months ago he had been sitting on this bench in the hospital. He had been waiting for the doctors to inform him about John's condition after the explosion in the storage hall. Now he was back again with Lestrade right next to him on the very same bench. The door to the emergency room had closed behind John on a stretcher and he had to wait again. He sat with his one hand resting in the palm of the other and elbow on his knees. Since the last time a lot has changed. He had changed. John was no longer just a flatmate helping to pay the rent. He was also more than a friend. Slowly but steadily in the recent weeks he had become the centre of his world. Not one waking minute had passed, which was not filled with John. John, John, his John. As he had seen John lying there in his blood his world had collapsed. Suddenly he couldn't breathe properly and desperation had lain upon him like a dark shadow. He cursed himself for taking John to the crime scene and to the practice. His friend could still be sitting safe and sound in Baker Street with Mrs Hudson now. It was his fault entirely that John had to be admitted here again. The jacket had been so wet with John's blood. Sherlock had been unable to make John open up his eyes, no matter how much he had shaken him and called his name. The paramedics had to separate him from John with force so they could do their job. Lestrade had talked to him all the time, but Sherlock did not understand a word he had said. He had heard only white noise in his ears and the pounding of his heart, from which he had always claimed not to posses. From afar he had heard quiet sobs, and he had wondered why Lestrade should be crying or one of the paramedics. Ridiculous! It had taken quite a while and cajoling by the Detective Inspector, before he realized that he had been the one who was crying. The tears had flown out of him and it had been impossible to stop the constant stream. It had felt like hearing through cotton wool as he had heard one of the paramedics who asked him if he was hurt. Sherlock just shook his head. No, he had not been injured. And only due to John. John, who had felt the necessity of rescuing him. He hadn't felt being worth to be rescued then and he didn't feel like it right now. Lestrade had ushered him out of the building slowly and had made sure that this time he was allowed to ride in the ambulance with John. During the entire journey he had felt as if under water. All sounds had been muted strangely and he had been unable to take his eyes off John. His army doctor, on the stretcher, oxygen mask on his face, a drip in his arm and a big bloody compress on his left side, while the mobile heart monitor beeped at regular intervals and thus signalling that John's heart was still beating. And now he sat here on this bench and cursed himself over and over. He could not stand the thought of what would happen, should John not survive his injury this time.

Next to him Lestrade cleared his throat and ripped Sherlock out of his thoughts. He looked up to see that a doctor had arrived and waited to be approached ."Mr Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade, I suppose?" Both men nodded. Sherlock's heart hammered in anticipation. "I am the treating physician of Dr. Watson. My name is Dr. Mosleh Al Sayed. I just wanted to inform you about the treatment and the physical condition of the patient. The stab wound in the left side of Dr. Watson is not deep and did not violate any internal organs. He has lost some blood, but we were able to replace it with a transfusion. We have stitched the wound, and Dr. Watson is on the way to one of the upper wards. You can visit him in half an hour, I guess. He is, moreover, conscious and responsive, apart from his mutism. So do not worry! Dr. Watson will be better soon. Depending on how he will improve in the next few hours, he can go back home tomorrow." With these words, he nodded his farewell to the two men on the bench in front of him, and left.

Sherlock's head felt strangely light as the diagnosis of the doctor sank in slowly. Once again, he felt a tear ran down his cheek. The whole emotional maelstrom dissolved with it. John would live! A smile appeared on his lips. He wiped his face and sighed. Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. "Well, thank God! That was close. Sherlock, haven't you heard, Dr. Watson will be back in order soon!" Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. „Yes, everything will be all right," he whispered.

"Well, then I would like to ask you now to tell me, why the practitioner turned out to be a murderer!" Lestrade looked at him intently. Sherlock focused on the man before him, grateful for the distraction. "The solution of this case is so obvious! All four women had had problems getting pregnant. Couples who cannot conceive a child in the natural way in their desperation turning in all directions for help. I would say that all victims had tried for a long time, but none of them got pregnant. Therefore, all women had also been looking for alternative solutions for their problem, which school medicine couldn't solve." He paused for the dramatic effect and revealed his conclusions. "Mr Druitt's practice is located in the same building as the dojo of Mr Harris. The women surely would have been discussing their similar problems in the locker room. Women tend to talk to other women with similar problems. One of them got the hint about alternative medicine somewhere and told the others about the acupuncture treatment which Mr Druitt provides, not knowing that they would be consulting a rapist. Mr Druitt has misused his treatment; putting the victims out of action. I would not be surprised if you find a suitable drug in his practice."

"And then, his victims became pregnant? And he was the biological father?" Lestrade shook his head in disbelief and disgust.

"First of all, they probably were glad that they finally had conceived a child. But at some point they all got suspicious. It's basically not uncommon for parents with brown hair to produce blond haired children, but two sets of twins having been born must have sown doubt eventually. Extremely unusual, if it does not run in the family. And I think, they all showed photographs of their children to one another . The similarity of the children's features is cunning when you compare their faces. It´s easy to put two and two together and guess that not your husband is the father of your kid who looks exactly like your alternative practitioner. And not only your child alone, but all six of them ." Sherlock rose and walked up and down the aisle completely caught up in his explanations. "Of course, all women will have confronted him by and by with their suspicions. At some point Mr Druitt decided to take action. If only one of the women would go and tell the police about the whole thing he would be ruined. Not to mention that jail was not a residence he would choose willingly. The witnesses, meaning the victims, had to get out of the way. The husbands would not be a problem he quite rightly thought, because I suppose that the women had not informed their husbands about their treatment at all. Mr Druitt was just a little too proud and self-confident. Too bad that his theatrical vein has led him to want to make more of the killings. A serial killer, it should be, the police would never catch. The idea with the Mah-jongg stones must have struck him as he saw Mr Harris play the game. Had he gone into a store and bought his own Mah-jongg set he would not have been that easily discovered. But no, he had to steal the stones from Mr Harris, to put us on a false trail. I think at one of the other planned murder scenes, we would have found more evidence that would have blamed Mr Harris. And surely the jewellery Mr Druitt had taken from every break-in would have shown up miraculously in Mr Harris flat or dojo if the police had searched them. How convenient." Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade. He was finished with his remarks obviously and Lestrade could see that Sherlock only wished to see John now.

"I must go now." Sherlock simply said. Lestrade nodded understandingly and stood up, too. "I guess you'll spend the night here? Well, I'm returning to the Yard to write the report. If I should have any questions, or if I encounter any problems with the interrogation of Mr Druitt, then I know where to find you. Tell him from me: Thank you!And that I wish him speedy recovery. He'll be all right, Sherlock. Don't worry!" The Detective Inspector turned and left the hospital. Sherlock went to find John.

A night nurse supplied him with tea and Sherlock spent the night on a visitor's chair beside the bed of John. He would have lain beside him like every night, but the hospital bed was too small. Thus, he was reduced to holding John's hand and not to let him out of sight. John slept safe and sound. No bad dreams disturbed his sleep. The doctor visited John in the morning and examined the wound. He was very pleased with the healing process and confirmed his assessment of the previous evening. John would be able to return home later that day. Sherlock signed the discharge papers and assured Dr. Al Sayed, that he would stick to his instructions, and bring John to the regular follow-up treatment to the hospital. Around noon everything was ready so that they could leave, as Lestrade suddenly entered the room. Sherlock examined him closely. Something wasn't right.

"Sherlock, good you're still here. I am not here because of Mr Druitt. Please sit down. I bring new results concerning the analysis of the explosives. You know, the bomb..." Sherlock, who was still trying to help John into his jacket, turned around in surprise. "I thought the analysis was completed. You did bring me the results some weeks ago." Lestrade drew up his shoulders apologetically. „Yes and no. Yes, our laboratory has made no further inquiries. But I mailed the results and a few samples of the explosive to a friend at Interpol. Your comment with the military was nagging at me in the back of my head." With a grave face Lestrade placed himself in front of the door before he dropped the bomb. "Sherlock, this morning I received a response from Interpol. The composition of the explosives and the construction of the bomb led them to only one conclusion. The bomb was built by British intelligence."

Sherlock's mind raced on to the only explanation , who was responsible for blowing up

the storage hall. His face was devoid of emotions, but his eyes were cold as ice. Slowly, he straightened up and coldly said just one word:

"Mycroft!"


	14. Interlude II John

Tossing and turning John is lying in his bed. He tries very hard, but sleep just won't come. Shadows hunt each other on the walls of his bedroom. The past days keep repeating themselves in his mind. After his little breakdown in the kitchen the other morning, it had seemed clear what he had to do to solve his problems and make his life a bit easier. But now he is not sure, whether he wants to go on with his plan. It will be easy to redo all that he has done since. To call Mycroft and demand the letter back. To stop the whole thing. He is not at all certain if it was a good idea to write the letter. Thinking it over it feels weird. Calling Mycroft and asking for his help is bound to upset Sherlock very much if he will find out and cause sibling rivalry to raise his ugly head again. But there is no one else John can ask for help. He hopes the letter will explain to Sherlock and make him understand why he was so desperate that he had to take those steps. He had never written something similar. And he is afraid of what this letter and everything that Mycroft arranges is going to create. He hopes it will not turn the situation even worse. Like Loosing Sherlock forever.

John had called Mycroft to ask for a meeting and Mycroft showed up in his own manner. He appeared directly next to him when he was buying some milk.

"So, Dr. Watson, you want me to do you a favor?" he had asked swirling his umbrella and raising one eyebrow.

"Yes." John had nodded only once, still holding the bottle of milk in his right hand.

"I was afraid this would happen. Sherlock is very demanding and consuming, I know. But you will not leave him? Because it is you who has changed him a lot. Loosing you would be devastating for him."

"Yes, I know. That is the reason why I cannot leave him. So I have to find another way. To get out, but to stay. If I found a way to stay with him and while forgetting all this mess inside me I would gladly do so. I know he needs me, but not like I need him. And that is the reason why I can't stand living with him anymore. It will destroy me."

John had put the milk in his shopping cart and had moved on to the sugar. Mycroft had followed him slowly. After some moments of silence, he spoke again, leaning on his umbrella: "Because this is my brother we are talking about, and I am very concerned and I do have an idea for your problem. But you must understand, if I am handling it my way, it will not be easy for both of you. And maybe, in case something goes wrong, you cannot return. And if he finds out that I am involved, and he will find out, be sure of that, I may lose my little brother. You are asking very much of me."

"Yeah, I know. And I wish that it would work any other way, but you know him. He would never let me go. And I don't want to go, but I can't switch off my feelings." John had swallowed audibly. "Would you deliver a message when it is clear that I will not ...?"

Mycroft had taken a glance on his pocket watch. "The letter is already finished I assume?"

John had nodded and had moved on to add some toast and tinned beans to the cart. Mycroft had followed silently in his wake. After John had paid for his items and had started to pack his purchases in a plastic bag, Mycroft had addressed him again. "Alright then, you can give it to me. Bring it to my office when Sherlock is sidetracked. I promise I will deliver it when I am sure that your absence is permanent."

"Thank you, Mycroft." John had left the shop. Mycroft had stayed behind, but John had heard what Mycroft had muttered to himself. "Oh well, that will break my little brother, or at least bend him."

Two days later John had delivered the letter he had already written to Mycroft's office. Sherlock had been called to come to New Scotland Yard, again a cry for help from Lestrade. Without further explanation John had asked Lestrade to help him get some time alone in the afternoon and Lestrade had accomplished his wish.

There in Mycroft's office John had sat in front of the older Holmes and had felt like a nervous little school boy. "Mr. Holmes, would you tell me what you have planned?" he had asked with the letter still in his slightly shaking hands.

Bemused Mycroft had arched his eyebrows. "Dr. Watson, if I would tell you, what I am about to do, we could stop the whole thing right here and now. Believe me, it will be easier for you not to know what is coming. And Sherlock of course would get suspicious if you behave in a different way. He can read you like an open book, you know that. And that is the last thing we want right now, isn't it?"

Mycroft was not so sure about the letter and the whole thing. But on the other hand emotions and feelings are the one area where the Holmes family fails spectacularly. So Mycroft left the decisions in this case to be John's.

John knew that Mycroft is aware of his feelings and he trusts that he won't talk. He promised not to. And John is sure that he can rely on him.

So he had left the letter in Mycroft's office and went home. Since then he is waiting for the hammer to fall.

A couple of days later a storage hall with two men trapped inside, fighting for their lives and trying to rescue each other, explodes.


	15. Chapter 12

After the revelation no one said a word. Sherlock just stared at Lestrade who felt those piercing blue eyes pinning him to the door. He dared not to move or to breathe because he couldn't predict what Sherlock was about to do next. The latter stood frozen in the movement, helping John with his jacket. The conclusion had stunned him obviously. A little eternity later Sherlock awoke from his solidification and finished his task with one swift move. Lestrade inhaled deeply and blinked a few times to get rid of the tension. "Sherlock! Sherlock, why Mycroft?" he asked clearly out of his depth. With a grim expression on is face Sherlock shook his head remotely. "I don't know yet, but you can be sure, I'm about to ask him exactly this question! But first I have to take a look at the ruins. I need to evaluate some data." They left the hospital and Lestrade offered them to take them home in his police car.

Sherlock left John and Lestrade waiting in the car. He needed only a few minutes here. The dust from the rubble and the debris of the concrete swirled around his feet. He stood on some stones which had belonged to one of the walls. His gaze wandered over the ruins of the building. His mind replayed the last five minutes before the explosion. And finally he allowed himself to actually feel what he had felt in those moments. His whole concerns had circled around John. It had been his only goal to make sure John would survive the blast. His own safety had been irrelevant. This was interesting. He had cared like he did now, but without knowing. The last moments, shoving John into the crates, he had acted on mere instinct. His brain had shut down, not thinking just acting. His unconscious had taken over, had already known what took his conscious mind the last weeks to realise. He cared for John more than for his own life. His vision blurred. The rising wind blew some dust into his face so he turned around to look back at the waiting car. Sherlock wiped his eyes and extracted his phone from his coat.

Baker Street at once.

You owe me an explanation.

Better be a good one.

After sending the text, he took one last look around and made his way back to the car. "Mycroft will be waiting at Baker Street," he informed the Detective Inspector.

As they reached their flat in Baker Street Sherlock hesitated a moment before he got out of the car. He threw a glance up to the living room window. Mycoft's silhouette showed behind the curtain. His brother had his back to the window, but Sherlock was sure that he had heard the car of the Detective Inspector coming. Postponing the moment of truth, he turned to Lestrade. "It is not my habit, but thanks for everything! From here I take over alone." Lestrade nodded hesitantly, not sure if it actually was a good idea to let the clash of the Titans take place without a referee. On the other hand, it was not his responsibility to meddle in the affairs of the Holmes family. He thought it best to wait until the dust had settled after the impending storm. "I'll call if I have a new case for you!" Sherlock, who now waited on the sidewalk with John, nodded briefly and turned to enter the building. Behind him he heard Lestrade depart. He took John's right hand, squared his shoulders and entered the house.

Biding his time after entering the flat, Sherlock shrugged of his coat first and helped John taking off his jacket. He guided his friend to the red armchair and let him sit down. Still not ready for the answers his brother would give him he turned to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. Busying himself he put teabags into two mugs. He was not going to offer his brother one and he was sure Mycroft wouldn't accept one. Leaning against the counter he waited for the water to boil. Feeling the intense gaze of the man, who waited in the living room between his shoulder blades, he poured the hot water into the mugs. Now he was ready. He carried the tea into the adjoining room, gave John his cup and faced his brother. "Why?"

"I would suggest you ask Dr. Watson this particular question, but I am aware that he is incapable of answering." Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He still stood with his back to the window, both hands on his umbrella. His stern gaze moved from Sherlock to John and back again. "I am not asking John, I am asking you, Mycroft! Why? Why was it necessary to blow up a building with John and me inside?" Sherlock slammed his mug on the coffee table and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighed defeated. He hooked the umbrella on his right arm, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I am sorry about what has happened, I really am." He raised his eyebrows and studied the letter in his hands. "The plan was perfect, flawless. The explosion had been calculated, so that only a small part of the building would collapse. The walls were sheltered accordingly. Nothing should have happened to you both, only a few scratches. Look, Sherlock, I just took the opportunity as it fell into my lap. You two are dancing around each other for more than a year now. Everyone else around you can see clearly that you and John are more than just flatmates and colleagues. But you two are so stubborn. You both needed a big push in the right direction, to realize your feelings. A bomb was necessary to break your armour. So I took it upon myself to give both of you that push. Unfortunately, there was a small miscalculation on the part of the explosive experts and the building was destroyed. Of course they do not work for the British government anymore."

Sherlock started to pace the room up and down. This was just unbelievable. "Unfortunate? Small? Mycroft, I visited the place again today. I should have done it earlier. The walls have been prepared, that much is true. But your so-called experts provided the walls with so much TNT it could have blown up the whole street. Is that what you call flawless?" He could hear Mycroft taking two steps to the sofa so he turned to see that his brother was sitting now, the envelope in his hands. He flung himself into his chair and waited impatiently for further explanations.

Mycroft winced. It was obvious to Sherlock that his brother did not want to say anymore about the failures of his minions. Their mistake had happened under his responsibility. Therefore he was as guilty as if he had made the wrong calculation himself. And of course they would never work in public service again, not even sticking stamps on envelopes, because he had almost lost his brother and John was suffering from this dreadful mutism. Clearly not a part of the plan either. Sherlock brooded over these realizations for a moment, then he arched his left eyebrow. "Is that all that you have to tell me?" he sneered.

Mycroft's eyes wandered thoughtfully over to John. "No, there is more, obviously. He came and asked for help. So I provided help. But I am afraid he was the miscalculation that I made." Mycroft leaned back and finally let go of his umbrella. The envelope balanced on his left knee.

"John asked you for help? Miscalculation? I don't understand a word you are saying!" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was taking a road he wasn't ready to travel yet.

"Yes, I underestimated the status of Dr. Watson's heart and soul and the impact his feelings had on his mental sanity. And I failed to see what he was willing to endure to save you." Mycroft shook his head. "And yes, he came to me and asked for my help. If one wants to fight a Holmes it takes a Holmes to win. His thoughts not mine. I had preferred it if he had talked to you, but he wasn't ready to take this step." Mycroft placed the envelope onto the coffee table, planted his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his joined hands. "Sherlock, you must understand that this particular problem we have here can only be solved by you. If you truly understand his motivation and what was going on in his mind than you will be able to pull him back to life." Silence spread between them.

"Help me understand." It was only a whisper, but Mycroft had heard his brother clearly. He shoved the letter across the table. "This is for you. He gave it to me and I promised to deliver it because this way he could tell in his own words what is going on in his mind. Please do read." Sherlock bent forward and grabbed John's message from the table. His hands shook as he opened it.

Sherlock,

I have no words to tell you how I feel or why I took this step.

I have no more to give you, but this. This is what is left of me. It is my heart. Please be careful with it, so it will not break.

And please don't hate your brother. He did it only to help me, to help you. I am the only one to blame here.

So please forgive me. I hope you can forgive me.

John

Sherlock read the lines three times. His heart hammered and he had to blink several times to clear his vision. Then, he raised his head and faced his brother. Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft looked rather guilty. What a rare expression, he thought. "Do you know what John has written?" he croaked. Mycroft shook his head slightly. "My dear brother, I may have spies all over the world, but the secrecy of the written word is something I honour highly. But to be honest with you, I recognize a loving heart when I see one." Sherlock gaze dropped onto the sheet of paper again. Something was boiling inside his chest. The paper crumbled in his grip. He curled himself up in his armchair into a tight ball and his breath became erratically.

Mycroft rose slowly from the sofa and took some steps towards the door. He watched his brother carefully knowing that in the state Sherlock was in any movement could cut him loose. "Before I go, there is one thing else I have to tell you." Mycroft knew that he risked his life here, but he had to say it. "I had some chats with the doctors you dragged John to. They didn't know the whole truth about John's mental state before the explosion. After I told them my observations they all agreed that he is keeping himself in the mutism. He is afraid of you and your reaction to his feelings. So it can only be you to wake him up. You know what to do Sherlock. You feel it inside. I can see that. Tell him your feelings and we all can live happily ever after." With that remark Mycroft vanished and the door closed behind him.

Sherlock longed for a fight. He felt betrayed and defeated. All this time his brother knew the whole truth. Easy when you're behind all doings to destroy your brother, he thought. The wheels of his thoughts turned with tremendous speed. His eyes flickered between the letter in his hands and his author in his red armchair. Suddenly he jumped up from his position and paced the room with long strides. Back and forth, back and forth. Thoughts still spinning he came to a halt in front of John.

"Why didn't you tell me you stupid idiot?" he raged breathless. "Why couldn't you just tell me? No, you wanted to spare me! Keep me safe! And so you went to my stupid stupid brother. Who managed to fail colossally! And sacrificed your mental health instead, you bloody bastard!"

He fell down on his knees in front of John. With his hands he grasped John's face and forced him to look at him. The urge to shake his friend was irresistible. Staring into his eyes Sherlock registered that they were not as emotionless as they had been the whole time after the blast. Something deep down inside and buried a long time ago cracked open and flooded Sherlock's whole body. Fire was running through his veins.

"Why couldn't you tell me how you felt? Why did you have to go to my stupid brother and order the catastrophe instead?" Sherlock's voice broke. He swallowed hard. His rage crumpled and turned slowly into despair.

"I could have helped you John. I know I am not always sensible. But I never would have hurt your feelings on purpose. And now it seems too late to do anything. What should I do, John? If only you would tell me." His voice trailed off. His eyes roamed over John's face. His fingers caressed the unexpectedly soft skin. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered.

A knot had built up inside his chest and he had problems breathing properly. He remembered a fairytale of his childhood. The princess who had slept for a hundred years until the kiss of the prince awoke her. Funny that he hadn't deleted this memory. Sherlock inhaled deeply and bend slowly towards John. It was worth giving a try, wasn't it? He licked his lips. An inch before their lips met he saw John closing his eyes. Sherlock's heart hammered painfully. He murmured softly: "Please, come back to me, John. I need you to take care of my heart."

Without haste he bridged the gap between them and kissed John.


	16. Chapter 13

An electric flash shot through his body when Sherlock made the connection. John's lips felt soft and warm, but he wasn't responding. Still no movement. So he broke the kiss. Exhausted Sherlock lay his head in John's lap. He closed his eyes. There was nothing else he could do. He was frustrated and heartbroken. The fear that John would never talk again was overwhelming now. He felt like crying, but his logical brain denied the feeling, didn't want to give into the desperation. There must to be something he hadn't tried yet. No, he wouldn't surrender.

They sat like this for a long time. Sherlock's legs got numb. He knew sooner or later he had to get up, but he didn't want to lose the connection. Suddenly a butterfly touched his hair. And another one. Fingers ran through his curls ever so slightly. Sherlock grew still. He held his breath as if any movement he made could stop the gentle caress. The stroking continued. This felt good. He exhaled and relaxed. A sigh escaped from his lips. The fingers stopped, the hand stillresting on his head.

"Please, don't stop John. This feels so good." he demanded. "If you wish." was the hoarse respond from above. Sherlock froze and his thoughts began to race. "Yes, please." was the only thing he could say. Sherlock melted into the soft affection. Joy and happiness flooded his system. John had used his voice. He had spoken again. So fairytales could come true. Everything would be all right again in the end. John would be John again, his John.

"Sherlock, I..." rasped the voice from above. "I want to..." John hesitated once more. Sherlock could feel his friend tense up and so after a moment, he rose from John's lap and gazed at the man in the armchair, missing the tender warmth of the stroking hands already. "John, you are talking!" Once in a lifetime Sherlock allowed himself to state the obvious. A small smile crept over his lips. "John! You're here, you're conscious." Just to say his name and the knowledge that John was able not only to hear him but also to recognize him and to react towards him filled his heart with felicity. "But when? How?"

"Yeah, Sherlock I... I'm sorry." John's voice was only a faint whisper. "This, this is getting...getting too much for me." He cleared his throat. "I have to... I mean, I want to be alone right now." Shaking slightly he rose to his feet and walked up the stairs with unsteady steps.

Sherlock felt numb. This had not been what he had imagined happening as soon as his John would be back again. This felt so totally wrong. The sound of the closing door from upstairs tore him back to action. Sherlock got on his feet and stumbled towards the stairs.

"John, wait! Please wait!" He followed John upstairs, his knees protesting with the sudden movement. Slowly, he took one step after another, unsure what he would do, what he would say if he reached the door at the end of the stairs. To understand someone else's feelings had never been his strength. In what mood someone was and why, the impact that his inconsiderate remarks had on others, emotional intelligence, to name it, was his blind spot in contrast to his otherwise so comprehensive and perceptive deduction skills. John had made it his task to guide and compass him in these unknown fields. A guide he needed so urgently right now . He was afraid he could lose John with one careless comment again. He had to be very careful. He took a deep breath before he knocked gently on the door. Nothing, not the slightest sound did answer his knock. "John? John, it's me, Sherlock." Silence. He knocked again. "Please, let me in. We need to talk." Still no response. He tried the doorknob, but John had locked the door. Of course he could simply pick the lock and gain access. The locked door, however, clearly signalled that John did not want to let him in, did not want to talk to him. "John, please talk to me. If you do not want to open the door, that's fine, but please talk to me. I have been missing your voice." From the other side Sherlock could hear a faint squeak of the bed. He waited for the sound of footsteps and the turning of the key, but nothing happened. The silence on the other side of the door frustrated him increasingly. "John, I don't want to push you, I will be in the living room. If you're ready to talk, I'm waiting for you." He turned around and descended down the stairs, listening all the way, whether the door would open.

In the living room, he stood silent in front of the fireplace for a while. Outside, the sun went down. With a sigh he lit a fire. The flickering flames danced on the stacked wood logs and he watched their dance. Following a sudden urge, he got up and walked to his desk. In the top right hand drawer he stored his emergency package. He opened a window and with a click of the lighter, he lit his first cigarette in months. Inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, he tried to relax consciously. The cigarette smoke curled and mingled with the twilight of the evening. The nicotine caused a slight, but not unpleasant dizziness in his head. The idea to take something stronger than just a cigarette was tempting him. But he had to keep a clear head in case John would bring himself to come downstairs. Flicking the ash out of the window he looked at the road below. Life flooded through Baker Street as nothing had happened. The people hurried in every direction, the bell from Speedy's chimed softly in the background when a customer entered or left the café. Finishing his cigarette, he threw the butt out of the window.

"Smoking can kill you, Sherlock." It was only a faint whisper, but it stopped Sherlock in his movement of closing the window. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John standing between the sofa and the door frame, ready for escape if he had to. "I know, but it helps me keeping my head clear." His voice trembled slightly. Clearing his throat he closed the window and turned around. He took two steps forward, but seeing John flinch he came to an abrupt halt. He felt a sting in his chest, as he recognized the pained expression on John's face. All he wanted was to bridge the gap between them and touch the man opposite him. The urge to take John in his arms and never let them be divided again was growing unbearable. Nevertheless, he froze on his spot to give John the opportunity to adjust to the situation.

"Do you want some tea?" It was perfectly clear that John only wanted to flee into tea making, his old soothing ritual. "No, I don't want tea, John. I want to talk."

"Alright, so you've got questions?" John hesitated. Sherlock examined John closely. The muffled voice and the red rimmed eyes told Sherlock that John had been crying in his room. He was still sniffling a bit and held a crumpled handkerchief in his left hand, but his face was tight, showing his distress. His stance was upright and stiff. In Sherlock's mind so many questions were burning. Some of the answers he dreaded and some of them he anticipated because of the letter John had written to him. But there was only one question which needed to be answered right now, the rest could wait. Locking his eyes to the warm deep blue which he had missed so heavily over the last weeks he moved to his chair, but didn't sit down. "I just want to know one thing right now. Did you hear what I was saying before I kissed you?"

"Yes."

John's face melted with awe and showed something Sherlock couldn't pinpoint immediately. After a split second it occurred to him. It was hope.

"And did you not only just listen, but have you understood what I have said?" Sherlock persisted.

"To be honest, I am not sure. Your statement left room for interpretation." Breaking the long silence his voice was raw and tender. John's face faltered. He was clearly afraid of answering the question, like he feared he could be wrong with his interpretation.

"Maybe the fact that I kissed you right after could help you find out the meaning of my words?" Sherlock arched a brow.

John bit his lip and broke the eye-contact to sit down on one end of the sofa. He cleared his throat nervously and fiddled with his handkerchief. "Look Sherlock, before I answer your question I have to tell you something you haven't asked. The mutism... I am... I wasn't... I mean, I didn´t develop the mutism on purpose, but after I woke from my coma I felt paralysed. You weren't there and I felt so alone. So I took the opportunity and backed off deep inside my head. I ran away from the hurt." Gaze fixed on his hands John blinked rapidly. "And I felt so comfortable and cosy. Almost peaceful. The outside world was only a whisper. Most of the time I had no energy to concentrate on what was going on around me. I just decided that I didn't want to communicate. It was an easy escape."

"But there was no need for you to escape." Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls. He was clueless. John navigated around his question without answering it. This conversation was getting him nowhere near where he wanted to be and what he wanted to hear. He calculated his options. Perhaps a more direct move would lead him faster to his destination.

"May I sit on the sofa, please?" John his gaze still fixed on his fiddling hands gave a court nod. Sherlock would have missed it if he hadn´t watched him closely. Careful and controlling every move he sat down on the further end of the sofa. Resting his left thigh onto the cushions and his hands in his lap he turned his body and his full attention towards John. "Why did you want to escape? Did you want to escape from me? Oh, living with me must have been hell."

John's head shot up. "No, it wasn't hell. No, don't think that way. As a matter of fact I developed these feelings I couldn't cope with and you couldn't have helped me. I was a coward. I backed off." He shot a quick glance over to Sherlock. Trying to relax he leaned his back against the sofa. He hissed as his wounded side made contact. "But I'm not backing off now. I will be honest with you, Sherlock. I shouldn't be hoping, but I can't stop thinking of all these things I should have said, but never did. Until today. Call this my revival speech," he stated humourless and tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of his jeans.

John closed his eyes, like he couldn't take to make his confession open eyed. "I want to explain. I need to explain, why I have done what I have done, why I have asked your brother for help me. Please, just listen to me. This is important. To me. I want you to understand. When I'm finished you can say all you want, or leave, or punch me. Anything you want to do, but now just listen, please."

His eyes still closed, head bowed, his hands steady now, he continued to whisper: "Do you know what it feels like inside me? …Being afraid of losing the most precious person in the world. …The one that makes your earth spin. …The one that makes your heart beat every single second of your life?" John inhaled deeply and now his voice became firmer, clearer. "The one you need desperately to exist, more like the air you breathe. The only one that can resurrect you. The one that you are craving for with all your senses, going mad because you are not allowed to even touch that person. Your fingertips burning because they are not allowed to touch and your soul yearning so much it feels like bleeding. But the only thing you want is this one person to be happy and you would do everything for his happiness."

He paused. His hands wrenched and then he buried his face in them. Still unable to open his eyes to see which impact his word had on Sherlock he continued his speech: "Even denying yourself and your own needs. Do you know what it feels like to dream and fantasizes about how it could be if it would be mutual? And every morning, you wake up and know that it isn't, and you feel the loss and the hurt tearing your chest open. And it hurts so much, Sherlock. Every day you feel like drowning in your own emotions. And you can't tell the beloved because you're afraid to lose the little you have got? Because loosing it would tear your world apart. I am so afraid of losing you. It will kill me literally. I don't want to live a single day without you. You make me complete. It is you I see when I think of home, Sherlock." Slowly he raised his head and opened his eyes. Sherlock still sat next to him. His face was blank. John swallowed. Tears flowing down his face. The Silence spread between them and grew louder. Finally John couldn't bear it any more. Sherlock sat opposite him like a marble statue. Emotionless, motionless.

"And now I have lost you, haven't I?" John's voice broke. He slumped into himself as if his life energy had left him, his face grey with despair. "I have scared you with my words. I am sorry, really, really sorry for causing you so much trouble over the last weeks. And you had to take care of me and couldn't take on cases like you wanted to. You had to abandon your work and everything else because of me. It is my fault entirely, I know. I will leave tomorrow morning, if you wish. I will no longer be a burden to you."

Processing all this information and the emotions John had spilled over him like cold water from a bucket Sherlock sat next to the most important person in his life and felt helpless. Where had this gone so totally wrong? He had just wanted his John back. He would have done anything to get him back. His head was spinning. In fairy tales after the kiss the couple lives happily ever after. Wait...couple? Yes, he thought about John and himself as a couple, they had been in some kind of relationship almost from the beginning, but it had shifted over the last weeks into something else. And why had John ignored his words before the kiss? Maybe he hadn´tlistened properly. He had to repeat them. Carefully he moved closer to John until their legs made contact.

"No, you haven't lost me at all. Quite opposite in fact. John, please, look at me!" John turned his head. And there they were. Eyes the colour of the warmest blue Sherlock had ever seen in his life. The windows to John´s tortured soul. "John, now you have to listen to me. Are you listening? Good!" Sherlock reached out and placed his hands on John's. He could feel the racing pulse below mirroring his own hammering heartbeat. "You said, you gave me your heart to look after. I want to give it back to you. But now it has company." With one hand he touched John's face. The tips of his fingers followed the traces the tears had left on his cheek. "These last few weeks showed me what I am actually feeling. For you. I know it is black and dried-up." Leaning his body closer Sherlock could feel John's hitched breath graze over his face. "Not capable of much, but will you take care of it? My heart? Because it loves you."

A genuine smile lit the fire in John's eyes. He licked his lips and his eyes flickered down on Sherlock's mouth and back to his eyes. "Yes, I will take care of them both. No matter what it takes. Because I love you, too."

Sherlock smiled. "Kiss me, you stupid idiot!" And John did.


End file.
